


Xavier's Variation

by fengirl88



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Charles's seduction techniques, Humour, M/M, Romance, Slash, secret_mutant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-08
Updated: 2012-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-29 04:35:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/315879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fengirl88/pseuds/fengirl88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’ve been trying to seduce him, yes,” Charles says.  “I think we can safely say it’s been a washout.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Xavier's Variation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [histoirede](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=histoirede).



> Variation: a specific sequence of successive moves, which may last 'however long is necessary to reach a particular position of interest. It may also lead to a terminal state in the game, in which case the term "Winning Variation" or "Losing Variation" is sometimes used.' (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Variation_%28game_tree%29)
> 
> Thanks to the brilliant kalypso_v for suggesting the part that Raven plays in this story, and to the lovely c_gracewood for beta wisdom, cheerleading, and especially for her advice about endings.

Charles Xavier is _not_ moping, though some ignorant and prejudiced people might assume that’s what he’s doing sitting in the kitchen at eleven o’clock at night, staring at an unopened bottle of champagne on the table in front of him. But he absolutely _isn’t_. Moping, that is. Or pining. He remembers a line from some old Fred Astaire movie: “Pining? Men don’t pine. Girls pine. Men just... suffer.”

Whatever it is he’s doing, Raven clearly draws her own conclusions when she walks in on it.

“Well, _you_ look happy,” she says. “Did Alex set fire to the bunker again?”

“Alex is fine. He’s doing really well,” Charles says heavily. “They all are.”

“Huh,” Raven says. She looks at him narrowly. “Have you had a fight with Moira?”

“ _Moira_? No,” Charles says. “Or with anyone else,” he adds hastily. He can see she’s about to run through the list and he doesn’t trust his poker face.

“Who’s that for?” She gestures to the champagne bottle.

“Me,” he says. “Thought I might drown my sorrows.”

He winces at the memory that _drown_ conjures up: himself and Erik, that first night, struggling in the water. Sometimes he thinks he’s been drowning ever since.

“You want to drown your sorrows in _champagne_?”

“There wasn’t any beer in the fridge,” he says, knowing it sounds feeble. “Help yourself, if you want some.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Well, _this_ is a first.”

All those years of insisting she sticks to cola because it’s too dangerous, because drinking might make her lose control of her mutation... It doesn’t seem to matter any more.

She doesn’t move to open the bottle, but goes on staring at him as if she’s planning a telepathic career of her own.

“So,” she says eventually, “are you going to tell me what’s wrong or do I have to keep guessing? I could guess some _really_ embarrassing things –”

He manages a smile of sorts at that. “You’ve missed your calling. There’s big money to be made in blackmail, you know.”

“It’s not too late,” she says.

He’s not entirely sure she’s joking.

“Oh, Raven.” He’s torn between wanting to unburden himself and squirming with embarrassment already at the thought of it. Talking about your sex life to someone you think of as a sister –

He must have projected some of that, because Raven pulls a face and says “Oh God, now I’m sorry I asked –”

“It’s Erik,” he says abruptly.

She looks shaken – disproportionately so, he thinks: her eyes wide, mouth open in a soundless _Oh_. He’d thought she knew that there’d been men as well as women, in Oxford and before. He’d even wondered about her and Angel –

“What happened?” she asks. Her voice is unsteady.

“Nothing,” he says. “Nothing at all.”

If anything, that seems to rattle her even more. “You mean you’ve been – you’ve been trying to –”

“I’ve been trying to seduce him, yes,” Charles says. “I think we can safely say it’s been a washout.”

There’s an uncomfortable silence that seems to go on for a very long time.

“So what have you tried?” she asks at last, with a brightness that’s obviously fake.

“Everything,” Charles says gloomily.

~*~*~*~

1\. Pick-up lines

 

“You have a very groovy mutation,” Charles says earnestly.

He’s more than a little drunk and he has a feeling he may be repeating himself. On the other hand, this line usually works surprisingly well, so perhaps the lack of success suggests he hasn’t used it yet tonight.

“I think it may be the grooviest mutant I’ve ever come across,” he says, thinking there’s something about the phrase that’s not quite right, but he’s too squiffy to pin it down. He beams hopefully and looks up from under his lashes.

“Save it for your girls, Charles,” Erik says. He sounds weary and a bit strained, as if he’d like to say something ruder than that.

“Seriously,” Charles says, trying to focus, “it’s a very –”

“Stop saying that!” Erik says, and this time there’s a warning note in his voice.

“Or what?” Charles says. He’s aiming for a provocative glance but he’s not sure it’s working, judging by Erik’s frown. “You’ll _make_ me?”

In a romantic comedy this would be Erik’s cue to seize Charles masterfully in his arms and kiss him till his knees buckle. Unfortunately, Erik doesn’t seem to recognize his cue. Life would be a lot easier, Charles thinks muzzily, if they made romantic comedies about men falling in love and kissing each other. Here he is all ready to melt into Erik’s arms and it’s just not happening.

“Go to bed, Charles,” Erik says.

Charles feels a flash of excitement that dies down as suddenly as it began. _Go_ to bed, not _come_ to bed. What a difference a verb makes, he thinks mournfully. And now Erik is cross with him, which is very sad. And wrong.

“Erik, I –”

“You’re drunk,” Erik says. “Go to bed, for pity’s sake, before I stick your head in a bucket of water.”

Feeling aggrieved and misunderstood, Charles goes.

 

2\. Display

 

He wears the things he knows bring out the colour of his eyes, soft cashmeres and tweeds, strokable corduroy. He always thought he dressed quite nicely, but Erik makes him feel drab, unable to produce the right sort of mating display. He wishes he had a more interesting wardrobe – brighter colours, a tighter fit. He wants to be a peacock but he doesn’t know where to start.

Wearing a bright purple silk scarf that used to belong to his mother as a cravat probably wasn’t a good idea, though it earns him a startled glance from Erik. There’s a flicker of something he can’t identify in Erik’s eyes, and for a moment Charles thinks things are looking more hopeful.

But nothing happens, except that he starts to feel stupid and self-conscious.

“Nice scarf, Charles,” Raven says.

He’s not sure if she’s mocking him, but it’s enough to make him put the scarf back in the drawer. He reverts to being his unobtrusive self again. He’ll have to try something else instead.

 

3\. Presentation

 

It’s surprising how many things you can accidentally drop on the floor. When Erik’s around, Charles seems to spend a lot of time bending over to pick up pens and teaspoons and paper-clips and coins.

The last time it happens, the move is over before it’s begun: the pen he’s dropped lifts itself off the floor and hovers politely within easy reach of his hand. He looks at Erik, who sketches a slight, ironic bow as if to say _Don’t mention it_.

Charles wouldn’t have thought picking up a pen was that much effort for someone with Erik’s powers; but if there is some other reason for the flush across Erik’s cheekbones it doesn’t come to anything.

Dropping metallic objects was clearly a tactical error, but it’s too late to start dropping non-metallic ones now. He should have started with something less obvious, like bending over to tie his running shoes.

 

4\. Object handling

 

“You know you have to move that now,” Erik says sternly.

Charles stops running his thumb around the white king’s crown and picks the piece up.

Erik looks baffled, as well he might. It’s not as if Charles can do anything other than the rules permit: _the king can move one square in any direction_. He’s already castled in this game, and he can’t put himself in check, so there’s really only one square he _can_ move to.

Charles wouldn’t normally make such a performance of it, but tonight he seems to be incapable of making a move without fondling the chessmen, twisting his fingers around the base of the pawns, swiping his thumb across the mitred head of the bishop, stroking the knight’s muzzle and flared crest.

“I ought to report you to the international chess federation,” Erik says. “I’ve never seen such terrible manoeuvring.”

For a moment, Charles wonders if Erik’s teasing him about his hopeless seduction attempts, but there’s no trace of humour in his face or his voice. His eyes are dark, expressionless.

Charles summons up his most innocent look and puts the king down on the only possible square. “Your move,” he says.

If he were in Erik’s place, his next move would be to send the chessboard flying and tackle his opponent to the floor. The image of it is so vivid in his mind that he thinks Erik must be able to sense it: the two of them grappling naked, clothes strewn across the library floor, bitten lips and muffled curses as they thrust against each other.

Erik moves the black queen in a deadly, swift diagonal, lets go as if the piece burns to the touch.

“Check,” he says, looking straight at Charles. “And mate.”

Charles wonders about suggesting a rematch, but the words die on his lips at the look on Erik’s face.

“Goodnight, Charles,” Erik says. He bends over the chessboard and starts putting the remaining pieces away in their ornate wooden box.

Charles flushes to the roots of his hair. He’s never felt quite so dismissed in his own house.

 _Our house_ , he corrects himself, but it doesn’t feel like that tonight.

 

5\. Oral fixation

 

He wishes it was easier to get hold of oysters here, or globe artichokes, not that they’re even in season. There’s a limit to the seductive possibilities of spaghetti and meatballs.

Charles embarks on a diet of anything that can be eaten in a sensual manner: sucking on orange segments, closing his eyes as he opens his mouth for the first bite of a banana, licking whipped cream off his spoon with exaggerated pleasure when they go out for hot chocolate. He makes pancakes with maple syrup, wipes the drips off his chin with a finger and sucks and licks it clean.

If Erik was doing this to him, he’d be _dying_ right now. But Erik just ignores him. Either the man is actually _made_ of metal or he’s just not interested. Basically Charles might as well give up now; he’s just embarrassing himself.

If he can’t do the things he wants to do with his mouth – and dear god, the things he wants to do to Erik with his mouth, it makes him dizzy with longing just thinking about them – then he may as well get drunk. At least then he won’t have to think about it.

~*~*~*~

“Everything,” he says to Raven. “I’ve tried everything. I’m obviously not his type.”

He’s as sure as he can be that Erik _is_ gay – he’d caught a flash of that early on, before he’d disciplined himself to stay out of Erik’s head. But knowing that just makes it worse. There’s nothing to stop them being together except that Erik doesn’t want him.

“Shit,” Raven says. “Charles, I –”

“The worst part is, I thought he liked me,” Charles says miserably.

All those times he’d caught Erik looking at him, a look that made him feel as if his bones had turned to water. But he must have misread the signs, mustn’t he? He _couldn’t_ have made it more obvious what he’d wanted if he’d been wearing a neon sign over his head saying Fuck Me Now.

“Couldn’t you just read his mind and find out?” Raven asks. She still looks desperately uncomfortable.

“I – I wouldn’t do that. He told me to stay out, and I have. _Mostly_ have.”

Her golden eyes glint with unshed tears; it’s a rare sight, and he’s touched by her concern.

“You really like him, don’t you?” she says in a small voice.

He nods, not sure he can speak.

“I’m so sorry,” she says.

“Thank you,” he manages.

“No,” she says, “no – oh god, Charles, I’m so sorry, I think it’s my fault.”

“ _What_?”

“I – may have given him the wrong impression about you,” she says, squirming. “I didn’t know you felt that way about him.”

It’s like a slap in the face. “He _discussed_ this with you?”

She shakes her head. “I – _shit_ , Charles –”

“What?” he says. “Raven, what have you done? _Tell_ me.”

“I can’t,” she says, burying her face in her hands.

“ _Please_.”

She reaches out blindly for his hand, pulls it close to touch her forehead.

“Read me,” she says. “Please, I can’t – it’ll be easier –”

*~*~*

It’s been a long time, and he’d forgotten how it feels being in her mind, both familiar and strange. He’s looking in a mirror and seeing himself but not himself, her golden eyes in his own face. The reflection in the mirror shakes its head in irritation and the eyes revert to his proper colour.

“Mutant and proud,” his own voice says, dripping with contempt. “Easy when you look like _this_ all the time.”

The bathroom door opens and Erik comes in. “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t realize there was anyone in here.”

Charles feels Raven’s spike of panic at being caught, but she doesn’t shift back to her own shape.

“Narcissus came to a bad end, Charles,” Erik says. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you that?”

“We all have our vanities,” Raven!Charles says. It sounds impossibly pompous; does he really talk like that?

“Well, you _are_ very good to look at,” Erik says. There’s an edge in his voice that makes heat pool in Charles’s stomach now, but he feels Raven’s discomfort at it as well.

“Shut up, Erik,” Raven!Charles says, embarrassed.

“Come on, Charles,” Erik says, moving closer. “You know I want you – you can’t not know that. And I think you want me too.”

Charles feels her panic mounting: if Erik touches her, then surely he’ll sense that she’s not Charles. Whether she says yes or no, it’s going to end in disaster.

Erik puts out a hand to touch Raven!Charles’s face and she flinches away, she can’t help herself. Erik recoils, staggering back as if he’s been punched; he stares at Raven!Charles in disbelief.

“Right,” he says, after a long and horrible silence. “I see I misread the signs. Thanks for setting me straight about that.”

He turns and goes out of the room. Raven changes back to her own form, shivering, teeth chattering with shock.

*~*~*

“Shit,” Charles says, pulling his hand away from Raven’s head.

“I’m so sorry, Charles. I just panicked and then I didn’t know what to do.”

“You couldn’t have _told_ me?” he says, feeling his scalp crawl with rage and humiliation. “Christ, I’ve made such a fool of myself all this time, what he must have thought of me...”

“You were always busy,” she says resentfully. “When was I supposed to tell you?”

He gets a flash of what’s in her mind: repeated images of himself working with Alex, with Sean, with Hank, with Erik. Never with her.

“I’m sorry,” he says, feeling his anger desert him. “I should have paid more attention to you. But oh, Raven –”

“What are we going to do now?”

“We?” He represses an impulse to snap _Haven’t you done enough already?_

“OK,” she says. “OK, I’ll tell him.”

“Not a good idea,” Charles says.

“Have you got a better one?”

“No,” he says. Apart from his first plan: getting royally drunk and forgetting the whole thing.

~*~*~*~

That plan is going just _fine_ , though there's a moment when all the cutlery and pots and pans start rattling in the drawers and the cupboards. _Erik_ , he thinks, and his stomach knots with misery, till he wonders if maybe drinking all this champagne wasn't such a good idea after all. But the rattling stops, and the nausea subsides, and he goes back to drinking himself into oblivion, because really why wouldn't you?

Raven's gone – somewhere. He doesn't remember where now. Something she said she'd do, that he told her not to, but that's Raven, you can't tell her anything, always goes her own way –

Footsteps on the stairs. Not Raven's. He grips his empty glass, as if that could protect him from whatever's coming, though nothing can now. There's a feeling of guilt gnawing at him, though he can't remember what for. Something he'd done, or failed to do...

“Charles.”

Charles squints at him. “Hello, Erik. You hungry?”

“I've been talking to Raven,” Erik says. “She told me what happened.”

That's good, isn't it? It sounds good, though he doesn't remember the details.

“Raven,” he says, nodding sagely. He wishes things weren't quite so blurred.

“Yes,” Erik says. He looks at Charles and smiles. It's a nice smile, but there's a sort of twist in it, as if the funny thing, whatever it is, is also sad.

“Sorry,” Charles mumbles. “Think I'm a bit drunk.”

“Yes, you are, aren't you?” Erik says without rancour. “Water, aspirins and bed for you, Charles.”

“Bed,” Charles says sleepily. He puts his arms around Erik's waist and pushes his face against Erik's chest.

Erik kisses the top of his head, or did he imagine that?

“Come on,” he says. “Let's get you upstairs.”

Charles doesn't remember all of the getting upstairs part, though it must have happened, because then he's in bed, still in his undershirt and shorts, with Erik telling him to swallow the aspirin tablets and drink the water.

“You're going,” Charles says, clinging to him with his free hand. “Don' go.”

“I'll still be here in the morning,” Erik says. “Go to sleep, Charles.”

Charles falls asleep. If he has dreams, he doesn't remember them.

*~*~*~*

Morning is rough. In Sweden or somewhere like that they call a hangover _the carpenters_ , don't they? It feels a lot like that, a team of workmen hammering away in his head. He finds more aspirin and water by his bed, swallows it all down gratefully.

Seriously, he is never drinking again.

Erik's in the kitchen, making toast.

“Oh god, kill me now,” Charles says.

“Dry toast,” Erik says. “Come on, you'll feel better for it. There's tea in the pot, the way you like it.”

Charles would refuse if he had the energy but it feels like too much trouble. Easier to eat a piece of dry toast and drink tea when Erik tells him to.

“Champagne hangover,” Erik says, and grins at him. He seems in a better mood today than he's been for a while, which is nice.

 _Champagne_. Oh god, it's all coming back to him – Raven, and his failed seduction techniques, and Raven being him, and Erik thinking –

He groans.

“Still bad?” Erik says. “I could make you pancakes, but you're probably not in the mood for maple syrup today.”

Charles whimpers, and Erik laughs, which is very unfair but also confusingly sets off a little twinge of pleasure under Charles's sternum.

“I'm going for a run,” Erik says. “See you later.”

Charles stares dully at the teapot, wondering how much of last night actually happened and whether he'll ever feel well again. Maybe he'll just go back to bed.

He almost collides with Raven in the hall.

“Boy, you look terrible,” she says. “Did you see Erik?”

“Yes,” he says.

“So? What did he say?”

“Said he was going for a run.”

“ _Charles_ –” She's nearly stamping with impatience.

“Sorry,” he says. He knows Erik said something else last night, something important, but he can't remember what it was.

She rolls her eyes. “OK, that's it. I've done my bit, up to you two to sort it out now.”

He's not sure how they're supposed to do that, but fortunately it doesn't seem to be necessary.

Erik's more relaxed today than Charles has ever seen him. There's still a tension there, but now it's more like anticipation, a sort of humming that makes the air between them feel charged, getting stronger as Charles recovers and the day goes on.

Charles's pen rolls off the desk onto the floor, twice. Each time he bends to pick it up he catches Erik _looking_ at him. The funny feeling in his chest is there again.

“OK,” Erik says after dinner. “Charles and I are going to play chess and we don't want to be disturbed. Understood?”

Raven rolls her eyes again, and there's some muttering from the others it's probably best not to investigate too closely, but Charles is too happy to care.

*~*~*~*

Erik snaps his fingers and the key turns in the lock of the library door, shutting out the rest of the world.

Charles glances at the chessboard and the wooden box of chessmen; he’s not sure if he should set out a game.

Erik raises his eyebrows, amused: Charles doesn’t need to read his mind to hear him thinking _You’re not seriously planning to play chess now, are you?_

Charles grins sheepishly. He feels excited and stupid and unaccountably shy. It’s not as if he hasn’t been wanting to jump on Erik for _weeks_ now, but this is it, this is real, their first time, and all his skills seem to have deserted him. He wants this to be _right_ , without having any idea what that would mean.

“So,” Erik says, giving Charles a look that makes him go weak at the knees, “Raven says you’ve been trying to seduce me.”

Charles flushes, but stands his ground: “Yes, I have.”

“Would you like to try again?” Erik says. The words are light but the heat in his voice makes Charles feel giddy.

“ _Yes_ ,” Charles says, his mind a glorious jumble of _he wants me so beautiful god he’s amazing can’t believe it_ –

“I’d like that too,” Erik says, firmly.

 _Come on, Xavier, don’t just stand there, **do** something._

He’s not sure if it’s his thought or Erik’s. Maybe both: they’ve been waiting long enough, and it’s not as if they have all the time in the world.

Something about that thought sends him to the record cabinet. Yes, here it is. He puts the record on the turntable, sets the needle down on the track and stretches out a hand to Erik as the swirling music begins.

“Dance with me?”

Erik looks surprised but takes his hand, and Charles slides his arms around Erik’s neck as Frank Sinatra begins to sing _In the heavens, stars are dancing..._

Erik puts one arm around Charles’s waist and the other hand on his shoulder. He sways, a bit awkwardly.

“What’s this supposed to be?” he asks.

“I think it’s a rumba,” Charles says. “I’m not sure it matters.”

Erik gives a small snort of laughter and pulls him closer, rocking his hips against Charles’s. Charles catches his breath at the shock of the contact.

 _What a rare night for romancing_ , Sinatra sings, _Mind if I make love to you?_

Charles feels the ripple of Erik’s amusement, but he never claimed his seduction techniques were subtle; only that, more often than not, they _work_. He brushes a kiss against Erik’s neck, feels a surge of triumph as Erik’s grip tightens and his breathing quickens.

“Broadcasting your intentions to the household,” Erik says, his voice rough with arousal. “You might as well have hung a sign on the door.”

“Oh, and saying 'Charles and I are going to play chess and we don't want to be disturbed' _isn't_ broadcasting your intentions?” Charles gibes.

They're both laughing, clinging to each other, and then Erik does something with his hips that would definitely get him thrown out of a ballroom dancing contest for excessive lewdness, and Charles thrusts up against him and sucks his neck hard, just above the collarbone, and suddenly it's gone past laughter into something else.

“Yes,” Erik hisses.

Charles traces the shell of Erik's ear with his fingertips, a light teasing caress, and Erik growls.

“If you don't touch me properly _right now_ , I won't be answerable for my actions,” he warns. His fingers bite into Charles's shoulders as he backs Charles across the room and shoves him against the bookshelves.

Charles's nervousness seems to have evaporated, and now there's only the frantic need to get his hands on as much of Erik's skin as possible. He tears at Erik's shirt- and trouser-buttons, finds Erik's zip already undoing itself, pushes his hands into Erik's clothes and groans at the solid heat of his flesh, the wonderful improbable sensation of Erik's cock in his grasp.

Erik arches his back and gasps “Fuck, Charles.”

“Thought you'd never ask,” Charles says, with a breathless laugh that turns into a moan as Erik pushes his hand into Charles's undershorts and starts stroking his cock. Erik has gorgeous hands – Charles has been staring at them longingly for weeks now – and to feel his cock enveloped in that strong warm grip makes Charles dizzy with pleasure. He has a sudden vivid image of how he must look, half-naked and debauched, pressed against the bookcase, panting as he thrusts up into Erik's fist. He tries to focus on what he's doing to Erik, but the repeated waves of delight Erik's touch is sending through his whole body increasingly leave him weak and helpless, knees giving way as his vision starts to blur.

Erik takes his hand away and Charles whines with frustration _don't stop fuck why have you stopped oh god please Erik_. He hears rather than sees Erik spitting into his hand, and thinks wildly _I bet no-one's ever done that in this room before, not for this_. Then Erik's hand is on him again, on both of them, pressing their cocks together, and the sensation of Erik's cock rubbing against his, Erik's slick tight hand gripping and stroking them both, is more than his mind or his body can cope with. He falls over the edge of orgasm with a long cry, and feels the explosion of pleasure in Erik's mind at that, feels Erik's hand faster and tighter now, slicked with Charles's come as well as his own spit, the pressure almost too much for pleasure as Charles shudders through the aftershocks. And then Erik's cock pulses against his and he feels the hot wet spurt of Erik's orgasm across his bared stomach, Erik shuddering in turn as he groans and falls against Charles, knocking a bound volume of the _New Yorker_ to the floor. They sink down after it, collapsing in a sticky triumphant breathless tangle at the foot of the bookshelves.

Erik slides down to kiss and lick Charles clean, and goes on till there's not a trace visible.

Charles starts to laugh.

“What?” Erik says.

“I don't think that's what people usually mean by _getting your head down in a library_ ,” Charles says.

“Well,” Erik says smugly, “I'm a first-class student, you know.” He kisses Charles's inner thigh and Charles wriggles at the sensation, right on the boundary between pleasure and ticklishness.

“Exceptional,” Charles says, stroking his hair.

The needle's stuck in the groove of the record, making a sort of hiccuping sound. Charles crawls over to lift it off before it scratches the disc to bits. He remembers the words of the song that made him think of it tonight:

 _Since the dear day of our meeting,  
I've wanted to tell you all I long to do,  
Dawn is nearing, time is fleeting..._.

So much time wasted in misunderstanding – but there's no point in dwelling on that. They have the rest of this night, and as many other nights as the Fates allow. He'd like to believe there will be lots more, but for now this is enough, and more than he ever thought he'd have.

He crawls back to Erik again and curls up beside him, spooning him and kissing the back of his neck. Erik turns in his arms and kisses him full on the mouth; Charles can taste them both, and the thought of that makes him dizzy all over again.

“I may need to lie here a while longer,” Erik says.

“Me too,” Charles says. Erik kisses his neck, and he groans.

“But then I want to go to bed with you,” Erik says. “Make love with you and go to sleep in your bed and wake up with you. You want that too?”

“Yes,” Charles says, his heart nearly bursting with joy. “More than anything.”

They lie there, kissing and touching, till the longing takes them again. Erik pulls away reluctantly, and Charles moans in protest.

“Bed,” Erik says. “Come to bed, mein Schatz.”

 _What a difference a verb makes_ , Charles thinks happily.

**Author's Note:**

> The song Charles and Erik dance to, "Mind If I Make Love To You", is from Cole Porter's score for _High Society_ (1956), the musical version of _The Philadelphia Story_ , and is [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RZUTuTzERFY).
> 
> Fred Astaire's line "Pining? Men don’t pine. Girls pine. Men just... suffer." comes from _The Gay Divorcee_ (1934)


End file.
